My cowardice burned a hole in my stomach, and I felt sick on the walk back to my car.
I replayed the scene over and over, especially the moment when I should have told Ashton why I wasn’t good. Why I was just as bad as some of the other men in his life, and had chosen to hurt him in an entirely different way. A way that had resulted in him internalizing it to become his fault instead of my own. And I’d watched his heart break right in front of me before he’d stitched it together with the same thread he’d used to create his Instagram mask.
He wouldn’t let me see him fall apart. All I would get from this point on was the same face he showed everyone else.
It felt like I’d lost the most important person in my life.
I paused at the corner and stared at the walk sign instead of crossing the street.
Because I’d incriminated his lifestyle instead of telling him the truth, Ashton was going to a party with Brett Decker. I didn’t know if he was trying to punish me, himself, or whether he was planning to live up to the party-boy reputation from this point on since trying to do anything else had resulted in rejection. And instructions to distance himself from me for the world to see and hear.
Fucking hell, my own panic had turned me into a monster. It’d turned me into a fucking Townsend.
Instead of trying to remember where I’d parked my Camry, I crossed the street and sat on one of the benches on the median separating Broadway. It was chillier than usual, but I hunched against the brisk wind and pulled out my phone. I’d already received a notification that Ashton had just posted a new picture.
Him in front of a mirror and dressed in his customary all black—baggy leather pants, his motorcycle boots, and a shirt with so many zippers I could barely tell which one was functional. His hair had the “sex tousle” as he called it, and his wide mouth was curved up in a sensual smile. His eyes were completely blank. I’d give anything to take away that deadened gaze, but how? If I told him the real reason why I’d come, it would have been worse. But maybe he’d just hate me and not blame himself for turning me off.
My chest constricted at the memory of his damp eyes and aborted confession of . . . wanting me. Maybe even loving me.
Fuck.
I sat on the bench and stared at my phone, willing something to change or an epiphany to hit me, but I had nothing. I walked to my car and returned to the Bronx.
After finding a parking spot far away from my apartment, I speed-walked back to my building. The burst of exercise did nothing to expend the nervous energy flooding me and keeping my hands unsteady, so I ripped off my clothes and changed into sweats.
Time to head to the gym.
I ran again, with my hood up and sweat trickling down the sides of my face, and was ready for a real workout once I got to Cadet’s. The relief that hit me once I walked in the dimly lit gym reminded me of years earlier, when the place had been a refuge and a second home when I got tired of being by myself. When I got tired of pretending to be someone else for the Townsends. That had changed once I’d agreed to start boxing competitively, but right now I could forget about tournaments and promoters. With no one looking at me, I could just work the self-loathing out of my system.
I launched into my workout. A fluid transition between a twenty minute warm-up, focus mitts and working on angles and combos, then bag work—the part that usually brought me to a Zen-like state that was impossible to reach today.
The bag became a consolidated mass of my fear and regret, and the power behind each punch was fueled by my anger at everyone and everything that had brought me and Ashton to this point. A jab for my father, who’d abandoned us as soon as we’d moved into an apartment my mother couldn’t afford on her own. Another for Mr. and Mrs. Townsend, who’d paid my mother lavish amounts in an effort to make their kids hers while she spent little to no time with her own. A right hook for Mr. Townsend for finding his own son to be such a humiliation, a “waste” as he’d so often said, that he’d tasked me with keeping Ashton out of trouble after the sex tape had made him a household name. And for dangling money in front of me, money he knew I couldn’t resist once my mother had started getting sick and the medical bills had started racking up.
Three more swings for Dylan, who’d taken up his father’s mantle with trying to control Ashton’s life. And for trying to pimp him out while doing so.
Endless hits for myself, because I’d let these people and their money twist me into someone else. Someone deceitful and shady who kept secrets from the people I loved for my own gain. They’d turned me into a fucking Townsend, and I’d betrayed my only friend and the only person I’d ever really wanted in the process.
Once I was finished, my body was slick with sweat. I could barely catch a breath, which was at first alarming, but then I realized I’d been at it for double the time I’d expected and the gym had quieted behind me. Most guys were in the locker room or had already gone home.
“You okay, Val?”
I squinted at Matt through the sweat pouring down my face, still trying to steady my breathing. He’d already changed into a dry-fit shirt and clean sweatpants, a hoodie clasped in one hand. There was real concern in his face, and I wondered if it had been obvious that I was taking my personal shit out on the poor bag.
“Nah, man. Not really.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Matt looked around before stepping closer. “Look, just so you know, a couple guys are talking shit about you. About the thing with that rich kid.”
“Jesus wept.” I stood up straight and wiped my face with my equally sweaty forearm. “These motherfuckers be in the gossip blogs like that?”
Matt laughed. “Word. That’s exactly what I said when Bronson kept coming out his face, and it shut him up. I tried to make it out like the media loves dragging boxers down and making up gay rumors, and they shut up about it.”
A smile tugged at my mouth. “Thanks, man. Good looks.”
“No worries. You know I always got your back.” Matt clapped me on the arm and hefted his duffel bag over one shoulder. “But if your friend got any rich female friends, I know a few dudes who will be there waiting for a hookup. Not me, though. You know who I have eyes on.”
“Ha. Yeah, I do. And I’ll keep that in mind, Mattie. But I think he mostly knows a lot of queer folks.”
Matt nodded, one powerful hand still gripping the strap of his bag. “That include you? Just asking.”
There wasn’t an ounce of animosity or fear in Matt’s warm brown eyes, and I had absolutely zero hesitation before saying, “Truthfully, I don’t know what I am. You know I never date.”
“You damn right I know. I been trying to hook you up for years.” Matt shrugged. “It’s sorta why I wasn’t surprised about the story, but . . . I never seen you look twice at a dude either.”
“Because I never do. That’s why I’m so confused.” I sighed in disgust. “I’m twenty-four. You’d think I’d know myself by now, but the only person I ever feel something real for is . . . the rich guy they’re pairing me up with.”
“Huh.” Matt nodded seriously. “You should get him to sponsor your boxing career, to be honest.”
I burst out laughing. “Shut up, man. You’re ridiculous.”
“You used the wrong word,” Matt said, walking backward. “What you meant was . . . realistic.”
I waved him off, still shaking my head with a smile. “I’m not about that gold digger life, but thanks for the tip. Thanks for everything.”
“Always!”
Matt waved at me and turned away, striding to the door. I watched him go, giving a good look to his muscular back, broad shoulders, and dark skin contrasted by his light-blue shirt. He was a great catch for anyone, but the combination of his loyalty, sense of humor, and skill should have been an allure to me. But it wasn’t. There were plenty of good men and women at Cadet’s who should have caught my eye over the years, but none of them had. Nobody stuck in my head, or my heart, but Ashton. Maybe that would change now that I’d finally pushed him away.
I slowly made my way to the locker room, thankful that it had cleared of mostly everyone. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with whatever crap Matt had been privy to.
Stripping off my sweat rag of a T-shirt, I walked to the showers while stretching. I hadn’t done a cool down, and I knew I’d be suffering later. Right now, I’d be thankful for the strength of the spray crashing against my sore muscles. However, the idea of a relaxing shower went out the window when I saw Luis already there. Naked as the day he was born, curly black hair slicked back with water, and his many tattoos standing out against his golden-brown skin—it was another moment when I should have felt some spark of something . . . but didn’t. I doubted I would even if he’d been a beautiful woman.
“’Sup, Val?”
“Luis,” I grunted, turning to the wall.
I hoped that would be the end of the conversation, but his stare was burning between my shoulder blades.
“You really a fag?”
“Wouldn’t be into your ugly ass regardless,” I replied, not missing a beat.
Instead of posturing like he always did in front of an audience, Luis snickered. “Yeah, well, whatever. Just wanted to let you know it wasn’t me talking shit about you sucking dick. That was Bronson. I just think you suck as a fighter.”
“You wasn’t saying that shit when you were on your ass in the ring the other day.”
“Everyone has an off day, and I got you back,” Luis said. “We’ll see what happens in a few weeks.”
I looked at him over my shoulder, frowning. “What’s in a few weeks?”
“The Born and Raised Tournament? You know there’s a chance we might be fighting.”
Feeling like the world’s biggest dumbass wasn’t even the worst part of this night, but it hit me pretty hard anyway. How the fuck had I forgotten he was in the lineup at the tournament? We wouldn’t know if we would be in the ring together until they drew names that night, but there was a big chance since we were in the same weight class. I was so focused on Ashton that I wasn’t even thinking about studying potential opponents for fights that were right around the corner.
Luis snorted and shut off the water streaming over his head with a twist of his wrist. “You know, bro, it’s shitty that someone as talented as you really gives no fucks about his career. What a waste.”
That was for damn sure.
Tony was right to consider dropping me. And he was right about me not being a born competitor. For as much as I loved working out, loved the fight and the training, the feel of adrenaline coursing through me and shooting out through my fists, my head wasn’t in it when it came to keeping track of my actual competitions. I didn’t know what that said about my future as a boxer, but if I was ever going to ride this thing to a place that would earn me real money, it was time to focus. Push everything aside and worry about nothing but fighting and my goals. Which meant no Townsend drama. No Ashton.
I repeated it to myself over and over as I showered, told myself what had happened tonight and what would inevitably happen with his brother was a blessing in disguise, but it didn’t sink in.
And when my phone pinged loudly in the empty locker room, echoing off the tile, not even the promise I’d just made to myself could keep me from grabbing it.
Ashton was still chronicling his life on social media, and this time he’d uploaded a picture of himself smiling lazily as he sprawled on a leather couch. Brett Decker was at his side.
Skipped the art show to come party at the Standard! What can I say? Rooftop bars do it for me :3
Judging by the intent way Brett was staring at Ashton, he wanted to be the one doing it for him.
My stomach twisted, chest drawing tight.
For a solid few minutes, I reminded myself of my plans, my goals, the tournament, and everything else that should have been more important to me, before switching back to my street clothes and jogging to my car.
If there was one thing I’d consistently wished for over the years, it was for my life to be as happy as it appeared to be when captured with an Instagram filter.
The snapshots of the night painted a perfect picture—me killing it in rare designer clothes, having drinks at an exclusive rooftop bar with a gorgeous man staring into my eyes, and me standing by the edge of the roof and gazing down at the skyline wistfully. Someone else had taken that picture and tagged me on it with the caption, A-Town is so beautiful in person!
I hated that nickname. It had stuck ever since MTV had tried to get me to do that reality show. My father had put the kibosh on it before I could dignify the request with a response. Townsends didn’t make tacky reality shows. It would be an embarrassment. And I was already enough of one after the entire world had watched me get balled by a young investment banker with a fetish for rough sex and rope.
Sighing, I pressed my forearms against the ledge and closed my eyes against the wind. I’d been standing here in the shadows for as long as I could get away with it. Coming out had been a mistake. I’d known it as soon as I’d stepped foot outside of my apartment building. The instinct to return to my bed, to drown my sorrows in wine and white cheddar popcorn, had been strong. But while self-care was good in theory, I knew it wouldn’t take my mind off Valdrin. I’d just fall deeper and deeper into the dark pit of my sadness with nothing but the white walls of my apartment to distract me.
Going out and becoming someone else should have been better. Except it wasn’t working this time. No matter how I flirted and drank or danced, I couldn’t maintain the steady string of vapid commentary. I couldn’t keep my smile.
The repeated text messages from Dylan weren’t helping. He kept asking me about Brett, and whether I was with him, and weirdly bringing up Valdrin. My chaotic brain couldn’t deal with the addition of his bullshit, so I left his texts unanswered.
“There you are,” Brett murmured in my ear. He came up behind me, pressing me against the ledge, and slid his arms around my waist. “Are you ready to get out of here?”
“Where are we going?”
“I have a place in the city.” He kissed my neck. “I’ll take good care of you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Does that mean you’ll dick me out real good? Or . . .”
Brett laughed, missing my sarcasm. “I’ll do anything you want me to do to you and more. I’ve been planning it for weeks.”
He was a regular master of seduction.
“Do you have a script for Viagra? If not, I know a guy.” Brett stiffened against me, and I bit my lip. Whoops. “It can be fun recreationally,” I added.
“I don’t use drugs. Including prescriptions I don’t need.”
“You’re a real party animal, Brett Decker.”
Brett clamped his hand around my upper arm and jerked me around so abruptly that it caught the attention of someone standing nearby. From my peripheral vision, I could see an iPhone raising just enough to capture this unfortunate display. Fantastic.
“Do you think I’m an idiot, Ashton?”
A flippant retort started forming in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t formulate it. I couldn’t bring myself to charm my way out of this situation, or make it look good for the gossip columns as he pinned me against the wall. The edge dug into my back, pinching.
“Stop,” I said. “You’re hurting me. And people are watching.”
“Let them watch. Do you think I care?” Brett looked so impassive while radiating so much resentment. “I know what you and Dylan are doing. Or more accurately, I know what your lowlife brother is doing.”
“And what’s that?” I asked, trying to shift away from the wall and failing. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Everyone knows Dylan has made questionable choices since taking over for your father on the board of TTC,” he said bluntly. “He has no business savvy and no patience. And now he wants me to sign off on a deal between TTC and the airline.”
“Um. Yeah. He does.” I sagged against the ledge and settled for giving him a bored look. “That isn’t a secret, Brett. Him wanting that deal is why you had dinner with him. It’s how we met.”
“Right. And tell me again why you were at the dinner?” Brett smiled slightly when I looked away. He knew I didn’t have an answer, because he knew I was never allowed to make decisions about the company. “Okay, don’t answer. We both know you were instructed to attend for the sole purpose of being your charming, alluring self to catch the attention of the lonely gay bachelor your brother wanted to schmooze.” I bristled, but Brett continued. “He thinks I’ll sign off on a deal just because a beautiful young man looks twice at me. Because in his mind, all gay men are desperate for sex any way they can get it.”
“No, Brett. That’s any man. Period.” I pushed against him again. Just slightly. He didn’t budge. “The number of men who’ve promised me anything from money to cars to mansions to leaving their own family just for a taste of my ass is probably longer than Santa’s naughty list.”
“I’m not surprised by that. You’re beautiful, smart, and charming when you want to be. I knew what he was doing, and I went along with it anyway.”
I twisted away from him, but Brett grabbed my chin and tilted my face up so our eyes were level.
“Ask me why I still want you to come home with me.”
The question startled me. I’d thought this was it—Dylan was caught and I was free. He’d been onto this from the get-go, and I could skip out and tell Dylan it was his own fault for being so transparent. And him losing the deal wouldn’t be on my hands. He’d have no reason to despise me even more than he already did, or to go off on a rant about my lack of worth. Or to be disappointed in me.
“Why would I go home with you if you’re not going to do business with my family’s company?”
“I didn’t say it was off the table. You’re using me, and I know it, but I would still do anything to spend time with you.”
Brett penned me against the half wall by pressing his forearms on either side of me. There was part of me that felt bad for him. I’d thought the lonely thing was an act to lure me in and make me feel safe, but no. It was true. So true he still wanted to sleep with someone who’d only been interested in getting his signature and a hand shake.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked tiredly. “Let’s just get it over with.”
A flash of surprise crossed his face. “I thought you’d be more eager.”
“I know you did, but Brett . . . just because you saw a sex tape that was made six years ago doesn’t mean you know anything about who I am today.” I put my hands on his chest. “I love sex. But that doesn’t mean I want it with any person who will have it with me. It doesn’t mean I always like people to treat me like I’m nothing but a walking come-dump.”
I pushed him back just enough to twist out of his grip. It wasn’t discreet, but he wasn’t giving me much to work with.
Surprisingly, he didn’t try to grab me again. He didn’t even look angry that I’d dropped the breathy Marilyn Monroe routine as Val called it. He just appeared . . . confused. Like he’d really thought that I would appreciate this straightforward approach to fucking for a deal.
The Ashton Townsend rumor mill was built on both my past experiences and imagined ones, and more than ever that fact made me want to crawl into a hole. I’d never been ashamed of enjoying sex, or of my many partners throughout the years, but I would never stop regretting how sloppy I’d been about keeping my sex life private. Being so open had only resulted in men like Brett Decker thinking they were entitled to do anything they wanted with my body, and justifying it to themselves by believing I would be into it. And maybe I would be able to brush it off in other circumstances, but this had been my life for so long. This had been how people had viewed me since I’d started modeling as a child. And I was tired.
“Are you coming with me or aren’t you?” Brett pressed.
I hesitated.
“He’s leaving.”
My heart stopped before breaking into a wild gallop, and my eyes flew a few paces behind Brett. Val stood there like a mirage, so out of place and so painfully beautiful in the sea of designer suits and dresses, in his faded jeans, hoodie, and bomber jacket.
“Valdrin,” I blurted. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see if you needed a ride.”
I was supposed to be angry at him. No, I was supposed to be furious. He’d queer baited me, then he’d rejected me. Essentially said what my father had always said—that my past would make him look bad. He’d crushed me. And yet none of that stopped the burst of warmth and fondness in my chest or the smile that slid across my face.
“Actually, I do.”
Val’s eyes lit up, and he flashed his quiet smile. The one he only used around company. He held out a hand, and I automatically started forward.
“Ashton,” Brett said, warning in his tone. “If you leave, it’s over. I’m not playing your game anymore.”
“It’s not my game, Brett. It’s my brother’s. I’m sorry if I misled you, but I’m sick of being Dylan’s pawn.”
This time I didn’t check Brett’s expression to see if he was angry or if he understood. I stepped around him and, in front of the onlookers and upraised cell phones, grabbed Val’s hand so we could leave the bar together.